The Horizon
by Shadowfang3000
Summary: "Don't live for Fridays." - Under orders from Sarif Industries, a therapist is dispatched to speak to one of its proudest employees. However, through shrouds of tough talk and snark sits a man with nothing but guilt to show. (OC main character, but she isn't a Sue don't worry! :P)


(A/N): Deus Ex? Where in the poopie…?

While I've known about Deus Ex for years, I only really got into it following the release of Human Revolution. I fell in love with the universe it provided, even if I sucked at the game tremendously!

Anyway, recently I've had a spark of new life in the series and I've spent hours running around and punching people in the face. This cultivated into what you're about to witness: An interview of Adam Jensen by an OC.

Let's see how this goes. I'm expecting badly, considering I have no idea how to end this...

And don't laugh at the title; I couldn't think of one!

Warning: Terrible attempts at being endearing, spelling errors, British Slang despite being in America, OOC characters, references to the events in "Icarus Effect", Adam Jensen being a grumpy person, and an OC (She's not a Mary Sue, cool your flamethrowers!)

**The Horizon**

What could be said about the Chiron Building that wasn't conveyed by its divine splendour? It came across as a sort of elephant in the room in contrast to the surrounding urban sprawl, gang wars and poverty that flooded around this one beacon of hope and glory. It had always surprised her how the Complex was never sieged by one of the more organised criminal sects, since as far as she knew the only guards the apartments had to offer were a couple of aging Janitors and a collection of immigrants from the Australian Civil War.

Her augmented optics scanned the lobby, to her left a collection of middle-class men sitting around a coffee table to discuss the latest drivel spewed by Picus News. She had always been regarded as a fine reader of people, and these males looked like the sort who had their noses stuck so high that you couldn't even spot them amongst the grey clouds that frequented the Detroit skyline.

"Miss DuFoe?" A drowsy voice called, a middle-aged woman behind the lobby desk beckoning her over. She gave her a quick nod before briskly wandering towards her, slipping by a teenage girl chatting on a phone to a friend or relative.

"That's me." DuFoe announced, expecting the chord you heard in soap operas when a character returns out of nowhere. The tired desk worker gave her a glare best described as "condescending", leering at her augmented eyeballs like you would an opaque stain on a work-surface.

_Another Natch._

_Brilliant._

"He's on the fourth level." The woman grumbled, picking up one of several ringing phones and holding it to her ear with her shoulder. It carried an expert finesse to it, as if she did this sort of thing constantly. Tearing a sticky-note off of a pad on the underside of her desk, she scribbled down a four-pin code and placed it on the table surface. DuFoe tore the beige paper off of the polished wood with ease, the lacklustre glue surrendering in seconds.

It didn't take long to notice that the group of men were watching her, disgusted by her embracing of technology. She found it surprising that they'd feel that way about augmentations considering the amount of investment Sarif Industries had made into this complex, but then she recalled that she was still in the poorer districts of Detroit.

You couldn't just parade augmentations around here without a gang of Harvesters having a word with you behind some dumpsters. The men probably thought she was being tremendously brave, or legendarily stupid.

_In reality, she was both at the moment._

Ignoring their piercing glares, she stepped over to the lift door and hammered the request button. She spent the awkward few seconds waiting examining the room once more, admittedly finding the architecture rather pleasing.

The wooden style was a lovely contrast to the usual barren and metallic look of the streets outside. Entering Chiron was almost like discovering a new world; a glance at what Detroit once was before the economic downturn in the 50s. She briefly met the gaze of a young man, who appeared to be looking at her with a different feeling than the men adjacent of him.

He wasn't a resident, that was for certain. His clothing was considerably sloppier than the majority of people in the lobby lounge, and with a large rectangular package in hand it was clear that he was some sort of delivery boy. His lips were surrounded by new grown stubble, an unlit cigarette sitting in his mouth awkwardly.

"Mickey!" The woman at the desk called, hammering the table angrily. "Get that fag out of your mouth!"

Mickey let the offending cig drop to the floor, his cheeks flushing red as he tried to recall what he was doing. DuFoe gave him the motherly sort of smile therapists like her would frequently present as he shyly hauled the large package forward. "D-Delivery for you!"

DuFoe slipped into the vacant lift and turned to face the lobby, hearing Mickey mention a "replacement for the mirror" before the doors slid close. She sighed as she was finally spared the inquisitive glares of others, her hand slipping into her coat pocket to fondle a small cardboard box.

_Not now._

She had to admit, it wasn't the perverse gaze of Mickey that caught her eye, rather the large cigarette that was sitting between his lips. She had been going cold for the past three days, having wanted to give up smoking for more than seven years. It was ironic really, but despite being a therapist who specialised in helping others she couldn't even help _herself_ efficiently.

Her fingers brushed against the packet of cigarettes, teasing the seal and feeling the plastic. _Come on _her hands egged on, trying to grab her attention. _Just the one, no one will have to know!_

The lift bumped suddenly, having been moving at a rapid speed in contrast to other elevator systems. She stumbled for balance at this sudden jolt, snapping her out from her trance like state. The doors hissed open, revealing a long and misty corridor with comfortably low lights.

More men littered the hall, their whispered discussions conveying cockney and Australian accents. She knew that the Civil War had been harsh on the nation, but she was shocked that so many of the employees here were immigrants from "down under". It was likely a mind-game of sorts: Americans were getting increasingly tired of the endless waves of Mexican labourers, so they must've enjoyed the prospect of white native English speakers doing the work for them. Australians were now willing to do work just as cheaply as other migrant workers, and it bestowed a bit more class to areas if you had untrained eyes and ears.

One of the workers snapped his head back to her from a conversation with his colleague, a small billow of smoke emitting from the ashen stick between his fingers. He gestured to a door at the end of the corridor, maintaining his casual lean against the oak panelling. "Second room on the right, love."

"Thanks." DuFoe acknowledged, maintaining eye-contact as to avoid looking at the narrow tube he had on hand. She was hoping that some sort of local smoking ban came into play soon; anything that would force her to stop wanting a fresh hit of snuff. Making her way to the door of her client, she looked at the scrunched up note in her pocket and paused for a moment.

According to her boss, her client wasn't exactly the most social man around. They had insisted that knocking would be futile, yet she still felt formality was always the best approach to an alien situation. Twisting her hand around, she gently tapped against the door-frame with her knuckles in a feminine manner. There was no response.

"Hello? Is anyone home?" She called softly. The two Australians exchanged glances, examining her from afar as if this was some sort of performance. She knocked a few more times stubbornly, her voice remaining soft and quiet at all times. Eventually she gave in and punched in the code irritably, the door shooting open before she could even blink.

_She could hear the nervous muttering of the Australian men._

_She was just as nervous as them, that's for certain._

Clenching the cigarette packet to cool her nerves, she slowly slipped into the apartment. The room was enormous, stretching for at least ten metres to the left from her position. A jaunty jingle echoed from the ceiling, before a woman's voice reeking of the artificial joy of an AI spoke out.

"_Welcome home, Mr Jensen."_

If her client was home, he certainly wasn't being very polite. After a moment of standing at the entrance like a haunting spirit denied passage by a holy seal, DuFoe stepped forward and descended a small set of steps. The living room of the apartment was illuminated by a large rectangular television set plastered onto the wall, the room cast in an azure glow from the intermission screen of Picus News. Her client sat slouched on a long, brown sofa with his back to her and his eyes sealed shut.

"I don't believe their crap." He announced, pausing to gulp down a drink. "Just background noise."

DuFoe would've been mildly creeped out by his words, but then she recalled the loud noise the doorway produced when anyone entered. Regaining her composure, she slowly paced around the sofa to try and catch the man's gaze.

Adam Jensen appeared to be in his early thirties, a thick yet short head of hair matching his carefully shaven beard perfectly. She had heard about the extent of his augmentations following the raid on Sarif Industries six months prior, but having now seen them up close?

_It was horrific._

A head and a torso was all that he had left. Sprouting from his vacant stumps were artificial limbs provided courtesy of the very company he worked to protect. They were top-of-the-range products; the type of things you'd expect Politicians and Entrepreneurs to have installed. She recalled the glares she had garnered downstairs for her simple optic augments, and wondered how in the almighty this man was able to traverse the Detroit streets freely.

Jensen blinked with an audible fizzle, his own set of futuristic eyes twisting to focus on her. Squeezed in his balled fist was a glass of liquid, cracked along the edges by the sheer pressure he exerted. It was a brandy; she could tell that from a mile away. Numerous empty bottles littered the room, no doubt the result of several drunken stupors since the accident.

"I don't think we've met." He growled lowly, his already deep voice gaining a threatening gravel to it due to his rebreather apparatus. He stared into her eyes, trying to work out her intentions just like she was to him.

DuFoe's gaze faltered briefly, the hardened glare of the ex-cop intimidating her tremendously. "E-Elena… Elena DuFoe."

Elevating an eyebrow, he reached out for the television remote and turned off a breaking report on a recent murder downtown. He continued to maintain eye-contact as he did this, seemingly unwilling to let her out of his sight. "You're that therapist Sarif was talking about?"

"Indeed." DuFoe responded, shrugging off her brief bout of fear and embracing her business façade with great haste. "According to Mr. Sarif, your last psychological profile was made-"

"Two months ago." He finished, downing the remaining contents of his glass before reaching for another sip of poison amongst his empty bottles of jack. "I have the papers; I'm clear now."

She was having none of it. Ignoring his childish protest she placed her hand on the arm of a chair opposite of his and slowly settled down in its warmth and comfort. "You've been through a lot today Mr. Jensen. That hostage operation at the Sarif Plant, your visit to Central Park…"

Jensen reeled back at the mentioning of his second "adventure". "… And where did you get that information?"

"I'm here to help you Mr Jensen." DuFoe smiled, glad to have asserted at least some sense of superiority over the man. "I have to know everything you've done today to be of assistance."

He downed another glass with a mighty chug, the beer having little effect on his heightened mind. Sighing for a moment, he weighed the empty cup irritably. "No point in drinking anymore if you ask me. No risk of getting drunk or anything, just the crappy taste. Where's the fun in that?"

"You drink for comfort?" She asked, placing her hands on her lap. It was a posture aimed to establish neutrality and non-hostility; her revealed hands conveying her lack of metaphorical weapons to sling at him - another technique that a million dollars education could net you. Jensen poured out another two glasses and raised one mockingly.

"I drink to forget." He muttered, before taking a careful sip. He nudged the other glass forward politely, yet she declined the offering with a shake of the head. "Don't drink?"

"Not anymore." She sighed, wanting to get back on track. She was just as uncomfortable as he was, and she'd prefer to get her job over with quickly so she could get back to somewhere she felt safe. Taking the initiative, she rose from her chair and began to circle the cluttered coffee table. "Tell me, Adam… What was it like today?"

He didn't respond to her vague question nor the use of his first name, staring at the lifeless television screen and patiently chugging his alcohol. She attempted to counter this by standing in his line of sight, but he calmly responded by gazing at his feet.

"I heard from Picus News downstairs." DuFoe announce, folding her arms powerfully. "One dead, ten wounded?"

"It was _Picus_ News." Jensen scoffed, turning his attention to his metallic forearm. His palm snapped back and the tip of a blade peeked out from his wrist, like a mole emerging from its nest and surveying the area. "You know as much as I do how much they inflate things."

"You _killed_ someone earlier today Adam." She reminded him, stating the obvious to try and hammer some sense into the stoic man. "In self-defence I'm _certain_, but that doesn't change a thing."

"And what, you expect me to feel something?" He replied with genuine confusion, the tone of his voice connoting a raised eyebrow. "It's my _job_. I'm used to it."

"You're repressing it all." She whispered in concern, stepping forward and leaning her minute weight against the coffee table. It didn't even tremble; it was like she was a ghost. "I want you to _release_ it. For your own good Adam, please."

"Certainly _Miss Dufoe." _He hissed bitterly, expressing all of his spite in a single sound. After a considerable pause he swung his body like a see-saw and rose to his feet, plucking a collection of brandy glasses from the table top before pointing at the woman accusingly."You want to hear the truth? I'll _happily_ oblige."

DuFoe looked back at the man, their optics competing in the game of face. Jensen towered over her, the sight of his broad shoulders and muscular chest filling her with the animalistic and natural fear that all humans seemed to hold in their hearts. She cleared her throat, visibly flinching. "Go on. I'm listening."

"Short kid, fat around the belly." Jensen began, speaking like a poet on the stage. He slowly stepped away from the sofa, journeying to the kitchen to wash the stained glass. "Came at me with a Zenith and jammed it in my face, screaming bloody murder."

"A _kid_?" She repeated, wondering what he meant. She knew that many of the Purity First members were young adults, but she couldn't imagine a teenager or child being within their ranks. DuFoe didn't move from her place, and simply stared over the counter at the shadowed figure of Adam Jensen.

"Snapped his neck like a _twig_." He stated dully, in the tone of voice you'd tell someone what you did during your weekend in. Jensen twisted a tap on and began to fill the sink bowl with cool water, before leaning back against a set of cupboards. "He was dead before he hit the ground."

DuFoe tested tense territory by taking an unsteady step forward. Her legs felt strange after hearing such casual words from her client. A few hours ago this ex-cop had murdered a young man; now he casually sat at home, downing cheap booze and watching the telly.

_It wasn't right._

"Adam, look at me." She muttered, glaring over the table top. Once again he hung his head low, running a tattered rag over a damp glass. His artificial eyes shot upwards and locked with hers.

_Through all of the iron, and all of the façade._

_She saw that hint of guilt._

"Nice eyes." Jensen growled, tossing the glass onto a drying board lazily and snatching up another one. "Cost much?"

"Two-kay a month." She replied, suddenly feeling conscious about her twin-emerald eyes. "They don't belong to me; they're rented for work days."

That much was true. Her real eyes were in cold storage at Sarif Industries, sitting for her to return to on weekends. It was peculiar, but she'd gotten to the point that she felt more comfortable in her hand crafted augments than she did in her birth-given peepers.

_She'd never liked her hazel irises._

"Enough dodging Adam, _answer_ me." DuFoe growled, rising anger filling her tone. She had worked with stubborn clients in the past, but something about the way Jensen was acting made her think aggression was key to making him spill the beans. "Why are you acting like this? Why are you so comfortable with _killing _people?"

Jensen let out a long, loud sigh. It probably only lasted three seconds, but to her it felt like an eternity and a half. Whipping his black hands to rid them of clingy tap water, he began to give his fingers a do-over with a nearby kitchen cloth. "You really want to know?"

To DuFoe it felt more like a threat than a warning, but the signals the man was letting off were far too varied for her to pin-point. She may have graduated at the top of her class in psychology, but that didn't mean that she never had moments of confusion. Jensen was a man with a _frightening _amount of pent up rage and guilt, and at such high quantities it tended to cloud people's judgements.

_At times like this she wondered why she didn't get a Social Enhancer._

"_Sell yourself to the machine."_

She hadn't noticed, but she'd been closing the gap gradually during this entire time. There was barely a metre between them now, the gentle gusts of air from the flapping towel tickling at her bare fingertips. DuFoe nodded firmly, ready to discover the man's true intent.

"… Your eyes." He said in a blunt, almost anti-climatic tone. He raised his hand, gesturing with two fingers at the offending augments. "When you plug them in and scan the horizon… Don't you feel like you can see more?"

DuFoe couldn't see where he was going with this, but he was indeed correct. She tended to take the zoom function of her eyes a tad bit for granted, as well as a quintillion of other functions she rarely needed to use. A brisk nod indicated her agreement. "Yes."

"Don't you realise that the very body that you were given at birth is _nothing _in comparison to what we've created?" Jensen growled forcefully, sounding like one of those nutty Purists that frequented the Picus Live Debates. He was absolutely spot on with his assessment, but wasn't that the _point _of augmentations?

_A way to reach your true potential?_

DuFoe furrowed her brow "… Yes."

"That's the reason." Jensen concluded, slapping the kitchen cloth onto his counter with a sloppy and damp thump. "The reason why I can _murder_, and _hurt_, and _smash_ and _maim_… Without a hint of remorse."

He wasn't being clear with his words, and that was coming from _her. _Through the midst of his rambles, she could only clamp onto the vague feeling of resent and fear in his tone. "… Adam, I don't underst-"

"I'm _not _Adam!" He spat, his fist smashing against the cupboard in one swift motion. The piece of furniture recoiled in shook, wobbling uncertainly as the shockwaves of his sudden blow shuddered through its frame. "Not anymore…"

He raised his arms, staring at the two large husks of plastic, brass and iron. His eyes swivelled in their sockets, darting back and forth at his unnaturally still ebony limbs. "I see _these_ hands… Through _these_ eyes… I'm not a _human_ anymore."

DuFoe stood in place, eying the dent in the cupboard as it continued to teeter precariously. Jensen's face contorted and trembled irregularly – the sort of pattern you'd expect on someone who was crying. Of course he _was _crying, she could tell. He simply didn't possess the tear-ducts to let the pain out in a damp, snotty-nosed sob. "You seem pretty human now."

"Enough of that novel blurb crap, look at the _big_ picture here Elena!" He roared, hovering his hand over his chest. Her eyes caught a bloodied mark on his shoulder, the wound freshly inflicted. "This body is not _mine_! I'm not the one killing, these god forsaken augments are!"

"Adam, you were given a _second _chance!" She stressed. DuFoe confidently took a step forward, prompting Jensen to retreat two steps back. "Not many people have been given such an opportunity now, have they?"

"_Elena_." He whimpered pathetically, the cascade of rage in his boiled blood quickly draining into a heightened sense of isolation and terror. "I never _asked _for this!"

_Way to put it simply._

As far as Adam was concerned, his death was sealed six months ago during the siege of Sarif Industries. It was foolish of his doctors to think he was mentally ready to go back to a _desk job_, let alone back to his duties as the top security man of one of the most important men on the planet.

So if you were so content with your own demise, how would you feel if you were brought back to life? How would you feel if against your will, you were resurrected to continue your work? Torn from the eternal coils of rest in damnation, and tossed back into the mortal realm to live out another few miserable decades?

"Jensen…"

It probably wasn't very professional of her, but she felt a sudden urge in her system to act. Maybe it was some sort of motherly instinct bursting to life in her mind, but with no provocation she wrapped her frail arms around that large man's chest in a firm, yet emotionless hug. She wanted to express a loving, comfortable gesture, yet no matter how hard she tried she simply couldn't do it.

_You can't fake love._

The image resembled that of a child clinging to their saddened parent, not really understanding what was going on but assuming that their kin required comfort. Jensen didn't return the gesture, his hands straight at his sides awkwardly.

"I-I don't _want _this." Jensen announced, prompting a nod from DuFoe. "I've never been so afraid of myself…"

Elena reeled back from the embrace, the stench of copper seizing her nostrils. She turned to the wound that stained the man's shoulder; a dark crimson upon a spotless white. It had been recently inflicted, by her estimate an hour ago at most. What was originally a wild stab in the dark was now the most logical assumption. "You did this, didn't you?"

Jensen nodded sheepishly, as if she was interrogating him about a crush he had at the age of nine. She'd had her fair share of self-harm cases, and it was peculiar how it seemed the more loud-mouthed and sarcastic of her clients tended to practice it.

"I wanted to feel something _real_. Pain, pleasure… It's all the same to me now."

_Anything._

DuFoe had finally deciphered the man behind the man. The gruff ex-cop that current stood coiled in her arms was no more powerful than your average stim addict – muscles and strength surrounding a small, pained existence. She looked at this man and felt nothing but pity, the state of his torn and abused apartment saying it all.

He had nothing to live for save for his job, and when that was over he would no longer be an asset to his colleagues. Once he ran out of uses, what would he be?

_He was a just a sad, pathetic, lonely man._

_Another useless aug in society._

"I won't judge you, Adam." DuFoe whispered, moving her hand away from the bloodied mark. Jensen looked longingly into her eyes, begging her for some sort of solution to the turmoil he felt inside. "… I won't blame you for what you've done. _None_ of this is your fault."

"You're a therapist." Jensen growled, that last fragment of bravado and snark coming back for a final stand. "A psychologist… Judging is all _you_ live for, isn't it?"

"I _help_ people, Adam." She insisted, patting his shoulder. His chest began to grow warmer, a mild red of disgrace filling his cheeks. "And I want to help _you_."

"Fine." He sighed in montone, his arms twitching with a sudden surge of energy. "Tell me then. Tell me _how_ you'll save the day, go on."

With a notable pause, DuFoe digged into her pocket and pulled out her well-thumbed packet of cigarettes. The pack was squished and contorted from how much she had clenched it over the past few hours, but that didn't matter to her.

If the crimson packet had eyes, they'd likely be staring at her in confusion. Three days of resistance had built up to this moment, and it was time she made a demonstration of her power. Holding the cigarettes in front of Adam's eyes, she crushed the packet with an audible crunch and an inaudible whimper. "_Forget_ about your past."

Jensen spoke flatly. "Excuse me."

"Megan, all of those scientists who died six months ago." DuFoe listed, taking a cautious step back. "Forget them. Forget about _her, _Ada-"

That prompted a sincere bout of rage from the large man, who charged her with the might of a bull. Ramming her into the dented cupboard, he glared at her with overwhelming intensity. Somehow, somewhere, she had crossed a line.

_So much for "top of the class"._

"Don't you _dare _bring her into this." He spat, clamping his fists around her shoulders. He snarled like a caged beast, easing his grip after a moment of realisation. "... _Stupid!_ "

Jensen stumbled over to the kitchen sink, getting more water to wash his face with. DuFoe remained leaning against the wall to catch her breath, overwhelming agony filling her assaulted shoulders and back. After a minute of waiting Jensen still stood at the sink, his head hung low.

"When I was a girl, my father sat me down once." She suddenly began, tearing herself from the ruined wooden cupboard door. She stood wearily for a moment to catch her beath, wobbling on nervous legs. "He said that you should never live for Friday, and I took those words to heart."

Jensen didn't turn, but his head perked up curiously. Glad to have grabbed the man's attention, she continued her speech. "Don't live to work, Adam. You're a _clever_ man; a _talented_ man."

"What else is there to live for?" Jensen begged, remaining stationary. In the end it was _his _choice. The world would move on ahead if he didn't get his head into the game, and not even the most engaged therapist in the nation could hold your hand across the minefield of fate. DuFoe turned to leave the man, leaving he crushed smokes on the frozen floor tiles.

"Whatever you damn well please." She announced, ascending the steps and letting the AI open the steel doors for her. "Adapt, that's what Darwin said."

Jensen rose from his slouched position as the door sealed shut. He rubbed his temples irritably as he rounded the counter and paced towards the dirtied sofa. Taking a seat, he reached for his ear and readied his Infolink to recieve his next mission.

_"Adapt, that's what Darwin said."_

_Before fate and society cast him away._

X

_(A/N): Well, glad that's finished... Sucked though :/_

_Don't know why, but it was one of those fics that started promisingly and fell apart quickly. I wrote 2000 words of this within a single hour period, only for the rest to be stretched over several weeks D:_

_Anywho, I hope someone out there enjoyed this. I know I often make these sort of comments, but I am rather adamant that this is a bit of a disgrace xD_


End file.
